4 Michael Healy-Rea and his insatiability

 4 Michael Healy-Rea and his insatiability

My last contact with the mister parliamentarian was on January 29th, the day I was assigned to a bunk at Finnegan's. It was not personal contact, but through Fiona, who I met that day as usual - at noon time. I told her straight on about my impression, about the shock I got after my entry to the house of evil. She said that the crucial and most important thing for me at the moment is to get my disability allowance reinstated, as after it she could get me out of that place. She asked about my plans. I told her that I am not able to find any other solution right now, as I stayed with my friends before, and any kind of hospitality, even the most cordial one, is going to end at some stage. I thought very intensively and said: “Before I finished here I contacted Michael Healy-Rae, he didn’t do much, but maybe he would be able to recommend something”. She smiled at me and said: “I have his number, as I dealt with him before”. I said the same - as I wrote I met him three times before - in Kenmare over his crazy clinic hours in local pub (Atlantic Bar at Square in Kenmare from 10pm each Saturdays), I know, he is a busy man, the wealthiest deputy in Irish Parliament, but setting the hours for public cases at local pub, Saturdays 10pm was really weird for me. Despite that, before I became homeless I met him in Atlantic Bar - walking in the darkness on the winding, narrow road between Kenmare and Bantry, without any pavement, side even, I went to meet him in those bizarre circumstances. I told him about my mental issues, about my problem with founding any kind of accommodation where the landlord would accept HAP, which was crucial for me as I ran out of my savings, about my landlords and the fact that they renting the place illegally - without any agreement, charging me 1100 monthly, so more than I am getting form my disability, about my suicidal urges. In return, to calm me down, he told me a very touching story about his experiences with a similar matter and asked me to promise him that I will contact somebody in the moment when I would be in the very big need, that I won't harm myself. Because he has a common reputation as a good guy, who would be always ready to help for difficult cases, I really trusted him, and believed that he would help me, especially after such a personal conversation. He also advised me to get two doctors' opinions and attach them to my housing application. I did so, for the second time, and sent the reports to the Housing Department in Tralee. But over our last meeting he told me: “You know what would be the best solution for you? Get yourself a mobile home..." and after a short while he added: "With the stove. As the winter is coming” - that was maybe at the end of October last year. I bit my tongue and didn’t dare to answer, but I was very close to thanking him for his precious advice, I just looked at him, and said: “Yeah, thank you very much for your time” and noticed that there was not really much to say anymore. Now being pressed against the wall and having to ask him again for help.

Fiona, rang him and left him a message on his voicemail, that she is calling on my behalf - Rafal Jaroszewskis’, that I became homeless and have the perspective of staying in a homeless shelter in Tralee and she is helping me to get out of that situation. She asked him to call back. She finished, put down the phone at the table and I started to describe the condition at Finnegan’s 

It didn’t take long, maybe a maximum of 3 minutes and he rang her back. I didn’t speak to him, Fiona did. She introduced herself as a social worker who is helping me in the homeless crisis. From the contest of conversation I noted that he recognized me, when she said my name and few details about me. In one moment she got really very excited: I heard only: “Really? That’s fantastic! What a coincidence”. She turned her eyes to me and said quietly with the comical, overdrawn gesture quite known to me already: “He has an apartment in Tralee. Somebody moved out, but you have to pay a bit more over the HAP. Would you be able to?” - she asked. Firstly, I didn’t understand, but I thought it would be the amount that I have to pay to HAP, when I will get classified for the assistance. I nodded my head in the gesture of approval - she was still on call talking to him, started to take notes on a piece of paper - a couple of figures and a couple of words - probably the address. I was overexcited, sure that Lord or good Fortune heard my prayers and that’s a miracle happening. It's truly incredible that on the exact day I was supposed to end up in the shelter, something so unbelievable happened to me. After chatting with him she said that he (Michael Healy-Rea) is looking for 900 euro in total for the apartment and 1000 euro of deposit. I wasn’t really 100 percent sure what I am hearring. So I asked - is that the money that I have to pay extra to him, after the HAP and my contribution to it (750 is the maximum amount of subvention in Kerry). She confirmed. So a bit disorientated I asked, if that would be 150 euro monthly out of my pocket on the top of my contribution to Council (it is quite a complicated system). She confirmed. "So according to my knowledge (after information I got form the Citizen Information Center) my contribution to HAP should be around 36 euro weekly assuming that the rent would be 750 euro, so this 150 would be another 36 weekly so all together 72, right?" "No - she said - it will be 110, 120 euro weekly extra from your pocket for the rent only" I couldn't really understand that logic and mathematics, but I thought: "Apartment from the parliamentarian, who is known as an exceptionally helpful man, for that amount has to be quite decent". He was also looking for a 1000 euro deposit, so exactly as much as I paid before for 2 bedroomed with kitchen and living, as all the signs were pointing to something really good. I said, that is a bit above my budget (exactly a half of my benefit) - I thought about the electricity cost and all others like rubbish and so on. But I didn't have any other choice. I couldn’t go back to that house of evil on Denny Street 17 in Tralee. So I said: “ok. It seems that I don't have much choice. When can I see the apartment?” “Right now, there is somebody there, cleaning the place, so we can go. I have the address". I don’t know the exact name of that place and exact number, but she drove me to it by her car, showing on the way: Aquadome, local Multiplex, so it was close to the semi-ring road in Tralee. At the place I saw the Volkswagen Caddy covered with images of Jacky Healy-Rea (young, smiley common fella). Tall, blond woman, who worked there, greeted us and started to chat with Fiona - they knew each other as the “manager” of that facility lived in the same town as my social worker - Castleisland. Leaving Fiona's car I was quite surprised by the outlook of the building where supposed to be that apartment, but maybe it was a part of the regular townhouse, something like I had before in Kenmare, a part of the house with a separate entrance.  

Everything seemed to be in order until Fiona drove off and left me with Sheila. The manager asked me a few standard questions: my name, where I am from, what I am doing for a living... I answered honestly: that after a few years in Kenmare and spending all my savings, I couldn't afford illegal rented accommodation anymore and now I am looking for somewhere where the owner would accept HAP. We entered through a clunky, crumbling door. I tripped over the high threshold and almost fell over. It was quite dark inside, but I immediately noticed a long corridor with steps to the landing about halfway along. On both sides of this corridor were doors with locks. The distance between them was rather small. In front of the stairs to the landing stood a washing machine and a dryer - above them an electricity meter for 2 euro coins. The walls were rather shabby, they hadn't seen paint for a long time. Fear and anxiety replaced my previous enthusiasm. Sheila unlocked one of the doors and led me inside, more like she entered herself and I followed her. I didn't have time to run very far, because we were stuck in a cage measuring maybe 5 square meters. The only equipment in this apartment was a battered metal bunk (inserted from wall to wall) - exactly the same as at Finnegan's, except that the mattresses were quite worn and there was no bedding. A floor-to-calf window was the only source of daylight. On the wall by the door was the same 2 euro coin electric meter. The old, worn out PVC flooring completed the depressing impression. To the right of the door to this “love nest” was the entrance to the bathroom. I didn't even bother to check it out. From the appearance of the "apartment" I knew exactly what to expect.

Sheila, still convinced that I am interested in renting that cell, took me to something at the end of the corridor, which she called "common space" - it was supposed to be a kitchen connected to the living room, an open space. On the wall by the entrance, of course, another meter for 2 euro coins. As a result, there was no electricity in  that section at all, who in their right mind would pay 2 euros to boil water for tea or electricity for the fridge, which everyone would use. Sheila in her enthusiastic attitude hastily opened the fridge, but a rather unpleasant stench escaped from inside. I only managed to see something on a platter that seemed to be a bit decomposing. The manager was saying something to me, but I have this strange ability that at moments when the content of the words spoken seems worthless to me, I simply switch off and see only a head talking to me; won't receive the meaning, it makes no sense. I remember being overcome with indignation - "900 euros for something like this? Is this supposed to be a joke? And on top of that a 1000 deposit? For what? For a prison bunk? It's worth maybe 200, so what would I destroy for 1000? Nothing inside is worth that much". I was desperate and furious - my only hope turned out to be some kind of mockery, I would have to rot in the homeless shelter for who knows how long; and mister parliamentarian - the richest in the country, revealed his true face quite brutally - a greedy little man, taking advantage of every possible situation to earn a few extra pennies.

I was truly disgusted by what I saw. I couldn't believe the greed of Michael Healy-Rea - that legendary Michael, so helpful to everyone. I couldn't come to terms with the fact that instead of helping someone in real need, he squeezes the last pennies out of a homeless disabled, demanding half of his meager income for rent alone, in something that can't be described as anything other than a dingy cell. And those meters on twos - everywhere. Because you have to squeeze even more, get as much as possible: penny by penny... As a representative of the nation, he should stand guard over its good, help those in need and not unceremoniously exploit the housing crisis in this country to get a few extra pennies. He clearly doesn't have enough… at the end “pecunia non olet” (money doesn't smell) as the Romans used to say. 

Next day I had an appointment at Kellihers Shop next to the petrol station with Fiona - my social worker. I told her about my impression - “You know, I always thought that if you reach some level of wealth you could afford philanthropy; like Bill Gates, Steve Jobs, or least known figures from the past. I didn’t expect that he would rent something for free. Don’t get me wrong - he for sure is not Jakob Fugger, but what I saw is just disgusting. The whole myths about good Healy-Raes, like the myths about lovely Ireland turned to dust. I really regret that I saw that place, as it destroyed one of my last positive imagination about that country”. She seemed quite taken aback by my reaction. Maybe this is normal in Ireland, maybe this is how it should be: the golden solution to the housing crisis - turning single-family homes into “apartment complexes”. Maybe it's normal to demand grotesque rent for something that decent people would be ashamed to even show to others. Maybe it's normal to treat cancer with homeopathy and vitamin C. Some people do that, after all. I don’t know, and really don’t care either who formally in Healy-Rea’s ownership jigsaws own that “property”; if this is Michael himself, his wife, son or dog, the fact is: he rang my social worker in the front of me, and he was the one who asked about that ridiculous rent for that cage, which for fun maybe he called “apartment”.